Lost in Translation (Poem #2)

Wow... Two posts in one month. What an improvement. I hope it can continue for at least a bit longer.
This was one of my first attempts at writing slam poetry way back in my freshman year and I performed it for my school's poetry jam that year. Even though I've gotten so much better at writing since then, this particular poem has a lot of significance to me. At the time of writing it, I was really trying to rework my life and let go of a lot of the weird decisions I made in middle school. In short, I wanted to be a new person but I knew that a couple of months was way too little time to become someone completely different from who I was. And I realized somewhere along my self-transformation journey was that the best way to move forward with my life was to make peace with the things I did back then and know that I am more mature and won't fall into the same habits. I have to admit that some of the best things that happened to me were during those three years and I kind of long for those times. This poem is an expression of the good times. It's an expression of the things I never want to forget.

Lost in Translation

There are some words in other languages that you just can’t translate even if you tried. They’re things you need to feel in order to understand the true meaning of. And when you try to find a quick equivalent to use in conversation, you try to substitute that word and the whole sentence suddenly doesn’t seem right. The whole thing works but it feels so wrong. If you think about it, some of these words are in your native language and you may use them so casually without thinking about what they mean. Their dictionary definitions have been distorted by the memories you associate with them so much that when you conjure up a definition, nothing but pure nostalgia comes to mind.

Comfort (n.) Summer nights spent carelessly talking on the phone with a best friend who makes it feel like everything will be fine, even if it won’t. It’s a school picnic at a park, getting spun faster and faster on a tire swing until you feel your head might just fall off.

Confidence (n.) The time you were given a ridiculous dare during lunch that might just expose your true nerdy identity but you did it anyways, earning one crumpled up dollar bill from the pocket of a friend that became a crush and who by eighth grade disappeared from your thoughts entirely.

Crush (n.) The boy you spent two years hesitating to talk to and secretly wanting to be with, even if you knew he only regarded you as a friend. You awkwardly brushed hands with him a few times over the course of two years, probably even having the chance to hug him on the last day of seventh grade when you packed up your backpack for the last time and finally said goodbye to the memories you had collected over the past many months.

Memories (n.) Eating a large ziplock full of candy with your lunch and not being able to think straight for the rest of the day. Throwing origami ninja stars made out of old study guides in homeroom when the teacher wasn’t there. Going home and remembering all of the stupid things you’d done during the school day and thinking you’d get to do all that again tomorrow. That is the intangible meaning that words bring to us. And over the span of cultures and languages, someone somewhere made words to explain all of that. So that no one could ever understand what they meant without knowing these feelings inside and out. And for the time being they’ll just be lost in translation.

That Oboe, A Biting Passion (Short Story #3)

This piece doesn't need an introduction. It's probably the most revealing thing I've ever written about myself like ever. Not to mention I even sent it to a competition to have it reviewed by people who don't even know what I look like. And now I'm putting it up on the internet to show everyone out there. 

That Oboe, A Biting Passion.

It had been a pretty bad day at school. I tried not to think about it, but tears came to my eyes as I was reminded of how I couldn’t even play a single note in front of the entire school orchestra and got scolded by the conductor. I hate the oboe. If I could, I would just leave it forever. Though I convince myself that it is true in this short fit of anger, something inside my mind knows that I don’t really mean it. And even though I swore in that moment that I hated it, I found myself unpacking my oboe from its smooth and slightly worn case, fingers caressing the same keys I have pressed countless times over the past year. I know I can’t stay away from it. Even if I try, I find myself brought back to the music that began to consume my thoughts over only a short period of time.

As I began to fix the joints together, I reminded myself of what I had to go through to get this far. The only reason I was selected to play in the orchestra was because I never listened to myself on days like these. My mind wanders and I smile, thinking about the recognition I have gotten— from both musicians and ordinary people. I have nothing to be unhappy about.

. . .

I was an insecure girl of only ten years who had come to live in a new town with new people and a new school. I had somehow managed to sleepwalk through an entire month of school, carrying the baggage of an instrument and another life in my small, innocent hands.

I had thought of quitting oboe many times throughout the past few months. It was just unnecessary weight and a reason to leave home early in the morning that I could honestly do without. Even with the constant encouragement of my teacher, there was nothing in me that wanted to continue playing an instrument that most people equated with the sound of a duck (a dying one at that).

As the school bus screeched to a stop, I quickly surveyed my surroundings before grabbing my lunchbox and oboe and nearly running up the aisle to get out. I didn’t want to be at school anymore. I didn’t want to be a sixth grader anymore. I just wanted to be home.

I began taking slow steps down the stairs, making sure not to slip and land on my face. Movement caught my attention and I warily glanced behind me, my heartbeat suddenly speeding up in fear of the worst.

“It’s the awesome oboe player!” someone shouted from behind me, and I suddenly froze. My heart skipped a beat and I almost thought I couldn’t breathe when I recognized the voice. The most popular boy in the entire sixth grade had just called me awesome in front of an entire bus full of people. I’d barely spoken a few words to him all this time, mostly intimidated by his good looks and charm, but I guess he saw something in me that was worth drawing everyone’s attention to.

I blushed a little, hid my face in the folds of my scarf, and ran down the street to my house as fast as I could. It was all just a cruel joke, I thought, my mind racing. He’s just looking for another girl to play with and I made myself a target.

I could never admit to anyone that a boy gave me the determination to work harder towards becoming an actual oboist. I guess I got some kind of sick motivation from answering his questions and watching him fawn over me for the next year. It kept me from quitting oboe and ending any progress that I could have made. In a way, it brought me to where I am now.

And if I could, I would tell him. I would tell him that even if what seemed so important then is insignificant now and we have gone our separate ways, I still hold dear that one moment where his words made me feel like my heart was going to explode. And as I ran away into the crisp October air, my blood pounded heavily in my ears and reminded me with every passing beat that my name and image laid in the bulky case I carried with me.

. . .

As I lifted the instrument to my mouth in this present moment, I felt familiar shivers coursing through my hands as I prepared myself to take a breath. Suddenly I realize what I need to make myself feel better.

I reach into my music bag to pull out something calming and familiar. I’m not in the mood for Mozart, I think as I find what I am looking for in a sea of photocopies of music. Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. I have played the melody so many times that I am practically sick of it, but I find something new to appreciate about it even from the opening notes of the oboe solo in Act I.

And starting from that first F sharp, I can feel myself flying. My eyes close as I let the music take me away into bliss. Behind my eyelids I see swans— pure white birds floating on a glassy lake. They make no movement as I continue to tell their stories through every labored breath I push out of my lungs.

The swans lazily groom themselves, occasionally ruffling their feathers. One dips its head under the water while the others watch on, blissfully unaware of their surroundings. And though they do cry in small sounds, they are largely quiet and at peace. They remain undisturbed as I play the opening solo.

I wish this peace could calm every storm that rages in my heart, but soon it too comes to an end. Suddenly, all of their heads turn towards an unknown sound, looking for the cause of their disturbance. One begins to honk loudly in anticipation of something threatening and the others join in startling cacophony. As fleeting as the moment they appear, the swans spread their wings and fly away into the darkness that lies behind my eyes. The euphoria that fills me in the heat of the moment is gone, replaced with a hole in my chest. Only the heaving of my shoulders and the heat in my lips and cheeks reminds me of where I am in this moment. I am sitting alone, on my bed, trying to relieve myself of unnecessary stress.

I have only played this piece in a real concert once, but the very first time was for an audition. My first re-audition into the Empire State Repertory Orchestra. Getting accepted the first time was my first large victory in the musical arts, but rather out of place for a time when I lacked the motivation and focus to even complete basic schoolwork, let alone get accepted into one of the most prestigious student orchestras in the Northeast Region.

. . .

I clutched my oboe case like it was the only thing keeping me alive as I took slow, hesitant steps into the school. Last minute thoughts fluttered like the butterflies in my stomach, causing me to have the same thoughts I had for the past two weeks. Do I really have to do this? I can always just try out next year like everyone else.

I was greeted at the door by an older woman who smiled and asked for my name. She brought me to a music room and asked me to unpack. The conductor would arrive shortly and I only had ten minutes to get my act together.

Calm down, I told myself, though my heart was still pounding at the thought of giving an audition in front of someone I had never met before. The closest I had come to something like this was giving a playing exam in front of my band conductor. But that seemed a whole lot less informal than what I imagined this to be like.

My hands shook as I lifted the oboe to my mouth, preparing to play a scale. Something easy, like C Major. I closed my eyes as I warmed up and tried to concentrate on the way my fingers and lips moved, rather than my anxiety. C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C. And back down again. I repeated this several times, feeling some of my fear retreat with every rotation until I had almost completely convinced myself that there was nothing to worry about.

The door clicked and a middle-aged man entered, grinning widely as we met eyes. I made my introduction brief, not out of arrogance and assurance that I would get the position, but because I feared that I might talk too much.

“You’re a high school student, right?” he inquired as we both got comfortable in our positions.

I hesitated for a second. “No, not yet. I’m still in eighth grade,” I replied anxiously.

“How long have you been playing oboe?”

I counted on my fingers. I started in 2011, so that made three complete years. “Three years,” I said rather confidently.

It took you only three years to get to this level? I could practically hear him say it. Honestly, I couldn’t believe it either and here I was, giving my first formal audition as a shy and awkward eighth grader. I am here. I tried to affirm myself in my thoughts, but it all seemed like a dream. It was too good to be real.

“Please begin whenever you’re ready.” His words snapped me out of my trance. I was suddenly brought to the cold reality of my situation. My hands were shaking again as I brought the reed to my mouth and prepared myself for the first note.

And out it went. I felt all of my anxiety fall away as I started playing. It wasn’t sudden, but a gradual loss of feeling as I began to envelop myself in the music. For the first time, I felt as though I really could do this. That I really could get accepted and make a name for myself as an oboist.

I finished the first movement about three minutes later, my chest heaving under my tight shirt as a reminder of the strength I needed to perform— both mentally and physically. I felt relieved. At least I had given the audition. Now, my fate was in God’s hands.

“You should stick around for tonight’s rehearsal,” he said after a minute or two as he stood to leave.

“So does that mean I got in?” I asked nervously.

“Yes.”

I waved goodbye to him as he left and I smiled genuinely for the first time since school began, barely able to contain myself. I had done it. I had actually gotten a position in the Empire State Repertory Orchestra and was going to begin playing there.

. . .

I’ve been in that same orchestra for the past three years. It was a real eye-opener for me at the time. My grades were slipping and I felt as though there was nothing that I could do about it, when there really was. But spending breathless Tuesday nights playing difficult music with people that I had to fight to keep up with gave me something to look at as a learning experience. There were many times where I was tired after school and could not muster up the energy to leave for rehearsal, but had to remind myself that without oboe, I was literally nothing. At a time that I had almost abandoned my academics, there was nothing on my resume except music. It was what was keeping me afloat during this dark time.

And through these heavily charged nights I met many people that I never thought I could. People that valued music as much as I did and devoted the same amount of time and effort into their playing. I would have never gotten that kind of experience any other way.
I also don’t think I regret not being able to place into the higher group. Maybe it has never happened because I keep getting beat by the seniors who have basically secured their position there. And maybe it is partially because I don’t want to leave. What I used to see as only a chore became something that I now look forward to.

At the most basic level —before I began to see the victories that came along with my work— I was constantly pushed by the encouragement of my teacher. I have experienced four long, eventful years of Wednesday nights spent at her house in lessons that I never wanted to end In these lessons I could further understand the mess and the masterpiece that I chose as my instrument. I learned how to tame its piercing nature and manipulate it so that it sounded pleasant, yet distinct from any other member of the orchestra.

. . .

“I can’t do this,” I cried disappointedly after my tenth failed attempt. I partially blamed my failure on my weakness in music theory, but I knew that it was more than not understanding the relationship between the notes on the page. I couldn’t make them come alive the way I could with the others and that was entirely my fault.

“Don’t worry. There’s still six months until NYSSMA and you’ll definitely have it by then. But in the meantime, you need to know how to practice it.” She lifted her oboe to show me how to move my fingers. “You just have to move your ring and pinky fingers so they’re like one finger.”

I repeated the motion on my keys, getting used to the unfamiliar feeling. It was difficult to keep them together and my pinky finger kept slipping out. “But it’s not working,” I mumbled, disappointed in myself.

“And maybe it won’t tonight. Maybe it won’t tomorrow night. Maybe it will continue to not work for a while, but that’s fine,” she encouraged. “Two measures isn’t going to kill the whole piece.”

I looked up at her in disbelief. Out of everything else, this was the only part that I visibly was not comfortable with. How could I make the entire movement flow without part of a crucial run?

I gave up in my persistent thoughts. Runs were never my strength anyways. As I let my guard down, pessimism flooded my brain. The entire piece would be ruined if I couldn’t get that one transition down. Though it seemed wrong, I actually considered it. It really felt as though in six months’ time when I had to perform this piece in its entirety, I was going to mess up in that same place and jeopardize my hopes of getting a perfect score.

But something clicked in me after looking into her kind, gentle eyes. I really could do it. I was holding myself back.

Even with the simple cues of her hands and the steady tapping of my feet, I felt reassured. Two measures was an insignificant difficulty that I could easily work out on my own. It suddenly did not feel like so much to stress about.

After I finished, I felt complete. I felt like nothing could stop me and that there was no limits to where I could bring this piece if I only practiced enough. “Thank you,” I whispered through heavy, labored breaths. “Thank you for everything."

. . .

I have never experienced a passionate relationship, but I know what it feels like to come home angrily hating the thing that is the very core of my existence and then crawl back to it at the end of the day because it was the only thing I had that would help me relieve myself of daily stress. And even when my fingers are cramped and my lungs are screaming for me to stop and breathe, I don’t listen because this kind of pain is the only kind that gives me the hope that will bring me to a better place. It hurts more than it should, but if I stopped playing the day I breathed out too far or cramped a finger, I would have quit a long time ago. Even when my lips are tired and swollen, I keep playing because nothing else will help me get better.

I am never tired of this love-hate relationship and never have been in all the time I have been learning oboe— even on days like today where I could swear to anyone that I am tired of standing out because of a stupid instrument. And on the days that I think that I want to be a regular student, I remind myself of the people who backed me up all this time— consciously and not —because without them I wouldn’t be half the musician I am today or half the person either. Nor would I even have a story to tell.

Symphony for the City of the Dead: Dmitri Shostakovich and the Siege of Leningrad

If I had to list my favorite composers right now, I would list Shostakovich at the top in a heartbeat. There's something about his music that's very unique-- it's like every piece tells a story. Well, the story of this book is about an extraordinary man who lived through the rise and fall of Stalin and felt the tumult of the artist's world as he tried to make a living and an extraordinary piece of music written for a city that had been falling apart long before it was captured in WWII.

The cover:

Dmitri Shostakovich was one of very few people who found a way to live in delicate harmony with the uncertainty of Stalinist Russia and continue to pursue his work. The arts were weaponized, used to forcefully promote the communist agenda. Artists such as Shostakovich, among other prominent writers and composers, were subject to the harsh criticisms of state-run magazines who put them on thrones of unreachable fame and popularity and yet had the power to tear them down in an instant. In the years leading up to World War II, people began to suddenly disappear, in what was known as the Great Purge. It is estimated that 20 million people were sent to labor camps in Siberia during this time, many of whom were established artists that may or may not have taken a wrong step around the sleeping beast of the regime.

Leningrad fared the worst of all of the Russian cities attacked during WWII. In the perfect combination of Nazi military strategy and lack of Soviet resources to combat it, Leningrad was quickly surrounded and all efforts to provide relief completely destroyed. Without food, the people starved, children and the elderly dying quickly. Corpses littered the streets and those remaining alive wished they were dead. The people turned to eating family pets, household items such as leather belts and industrial glues and eventually eating each other.
But the people of Leningrad soon realized that in a matter of starvation, to work was to live.

Dmitri Shostakovich lived his whole life by the piano. At age 13, he was enrolled by his mother into the Leningrad conservatory, where he continued to study his craft, writing his first symphony as a thesis project at age 19. He then began his musical career in the film music industry where he wrote and performed scores for over 30 movies, most of which have been lost to history or exist only in fragments. When the siege of Leningrad began, he was able to leave the city with his family within a few months by plane before he would have been forced to witness some of the worst living conditions in human history and the effects they had on the population. Still, he held the people of Leningrad in his heart while composing his seventh symphony, accordingly dubbed "The Leningrad Symphony". This is the story of that piece of music, its composer and the extraordinary resolve of the people it was written about.

My thoughts:

What made this book attractive to me is that it's about Dmitri Shostakovich, the composer of one particular piano concerto that left a particularly strong impression on me because I was in my second year of formal youth orchestra when I got to perform in a soloist-orchestra performance of it (I obviously remember a lot of the music we played in my first and second years of youth orchestra because I was just new to orchestras in general). That work was his Piano Concerto No. 2, written for his son Maxim's 19th birthday and premiered at his graduation from the Moscow Conservatory. (I suggest that you check it out, especially the first movement because it's a youthful and fun piece of music). The second time I got to be a part of a performance of his work was actually earlier this year for a special performance by this group called Piano Battle and then it was Waltz No. 2 from the Jazz Suite. There's something very sentimental about that piece of music and it just makes me feel like I'm in a room full of dancing people and I can feel the energy of people around me and the thickness of chatter in the air and it feels so good. See, this is what music does to you. It's supposed to make you feel something-- the nature of that feeling is up for the composer to decide but you know the music is good when you're moved by it. 

What I find interesting about the circumstances of the 7th symphony is that Shostakovich was made to write it to boost morale in Leningrad and that's exactly what it did. There were posters put up outside the concert hall that there was going to be a rehearsal of the music and 14 starved musicians of the Leningrad Philharmonic showed up to practice, out of which, one died during the rehearsal (I think it was the flautist) and his body was just left on the stage, as they had to keep rehearsing and keeping up the morale of the people. The first performance of the 7th symphony was in Leningrad, put on by whatever was left of the orchestra and it was a joy to the people. Literally there was a standing ovation and people just kept urging the orchestra to play parts from it in the encore because they no longer felt abandoned like they had during WWII. At least they were in the hearts of the musicians.

I think another reason that the 7th symphony is of particular note is that it provides a strong contrast between the music that Shostakovich wanted to write and what he was forced to make by Stalin's control of the media. Literally, his job depended on whether Stalin's media liked him or not on any given day-- and he was no stranger to both extremes. Even though he was seeing a higher point in his career in terms of popularity, he felt stifled by Stalin and wanted to rebel, even a little. Shostakovich has this interesting quote about calling the 7th symphony the "Leningrad Symphony" that ties in very nicely here: "Actually I have nothing against calling the seventh the 'Leningrad', but it's not about the Leningrad under siege. It's about the Leningrad that Stalin destroyed and Hitler merely finished off."

((Guess what?! I've got new books and I'm super excited I might actually be able to make monthly posts!! Happy Reading! If you happen to listen to the 7th symphony after reading this review, please let me know what you think!))

Ready Player One

((NOTICE: I started writing this post in March but school got in the way again and I couldn't get around to editing this until now so some things might not be time-relevant to now))

It's been so long since I actually went to the theater to watch a movie! Like I can confidently tell you that the last time was when I saw "The Last Jedi" I think like two days before Christmas. I think that's when I saw the trailer for this movie and thought, "Man, I really need to see this"

The concept was so interesting: The world sucks, so people use the Internet for what they've always used it for: To escape reality. Except you can literally do whatever you want, be whoever you want to be, it's a complete free-for-all. And the creator of it all is dead. He left a note with a riddle to unlock three keys and now it's an all out war between the regular users of this Internet wonderland and a massive corporation trying to take over it.

((Just a heads up: For this review I'm going to be talking a lot about the book and the movie, so if you haven't read/watched one/either of them, avoid the commentary because there WILL be spoilers. I need to get this out of my system ok))

The cover:

((There are so many reprints of this book it's actually insane and it's not even that old))

The story:

In the year 2045, reality is an ugly place. People use the Internet to continually avoid the problems that they are facing in the real world and corporations have risen to take advantage of it. Wade Watts lives an average life in "The Stacks", a poor neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio of stacked up trailers. The only he really feels alive is when he's jacked into the virtual utopia known as the OASIS. Wade's devoted his life to studying the puzzles hidden within this world's digital confines—puzzles that are based on their creator's obsession with the pop culture of decades past and that promise massive power and fortune to whoever can unlock them.
This doesn't come without an adversary. The corporate giant IOI rules the entire Internet, except the OASIS. News of the creator's death has led them into believing that they can outsmart the dedicated people vying for the prize.

My thoughts: 

I'm just going to talk about the differences between the movie and the book and what I liked and didn't like about both. First of all, I wasn't born in the 80s, nor do I really know much about it, apart from Gundam and really that's where my knowledge ends. ((Speaking of Gundam, when I was in the theater watching the movie, there was this group of (college?) students sitting in front of me and they were all East Asians and so that scene comes at the end where Daito becomes one of the Gundam robots and he goes through the whole transformation sequence and the Asian group literally starts bursting into laughter like I was smiling because it's Gundam and I know a little about it but they were like dying and my mom and brother were just looking at me like "spill it. You know something that we don't."))

Also, the movie makes the whole Parzival/Art3mis thing so damsel-in-distress-y? Like what was the reason for that? Art3mis' character starts out strong in the movie but when she meets Parzival (aka Wade) in the real world, she's suddenly head over heels in love with him and they've never even seen each other before. Well that's not exactly true-- Art3mis has a popular gunter blog that he frequents and she's just a gunter celebrity in general. Even Parzival didn't come to know of her existence until they "met" at the race in the movie and at the dungeon in the book. Ok that was a weird inconsistency that could really just be summed up as the dungeon scene was good for a book but would've been weird in a movie so they changed it to a race and honestly it was well-executed and I liked it so why not? Also the scene at the end of the race where Merlin gives Parzival the first key reminded me so much of the color palette for the scene in the Ender's Game movie in the video game where the Formics basically insert Valentine and Peter into the game to communicate with him. I don't know I think it was that fall leaves lush red colors palette that was making me nostalgic for being 13 and actually excited for that movie even though it really wasn't that good ((I think I'm the only person I know of who gets nostalgic about being 13 and getting hyped over movies that are actually pretty bad)). BTW it was WADE'S plan to get captured by IOI and destroy them from the inside out and not Art3mis getting caught and dragged away and somehow making it out.

Also on that note, I'm going to go off probably about the characters being represented in the movies as they were in the books. The most interesting commentary about Internet camaraderie that I've seen in this book is that often times your best friend on the Internet might be someone you completely did not expect them being. The obvious example is Parzival and Aech-- the most surprising of which is that Aech is actually a girl. She says that she originally made a male avatar because she watched her mother gain customers at work from posing as a white male, so that's what she did too and it just became her identity (she's a black female btw). That and the other one is Daito and Shoto who describe themselves in the book and the movie as sworn brothers, although the movie takes that a step further and makes them blood brothers. In the book though, Daito is the only one of the main group (Parzival, Art3mis, Aech, Daito, and Shoto) to actually get killed in the real world (He does have a symbolic "death" in the movie where he sacrifices his avatar for his friends' survival and I guess that might be a nod at his fate in the book but I might be reading too much into it). The best part is that shortly after Daito's death in the book, Parzival and Shoto talk about it, where Shoto admits that he has never seen the person that he called his "brother" for so many years in real life and the only reason he figured that Daito had died was because 1. he wasn't logging into the OASIS anymore so something had clearly happened to him, and 2. He stumbled upon a recent article from a news group in Japan about an "otaku suicide" and was certain that it was him and that IOI had framed his death to look like a suicide. He basically told Parzival to put it up on all of the major news outlets in the OASIS to rally support against IOI because if a prominent gunter (egg hunter) had been killed, a lot of the amateurs that looked up to them would be motivated to do something absolutely crazy like a full scale takedown of IOI.

Wade's plan in the book to completely destroy IOI from the inside is so out of character that it made me crazy for a little while but oh my God it works so well. Well it's kind of out of character. Even though he's known by then as a role model to all the amateur gunters and part of an exclusive squad, he's basically the same from the beginning. I feel like the movie takes too much advantage of his awkwardness and after reading how masterful he is in the book, it made me feel like the movie ran with his awkwardness to the point where they just made him unable to do anything (he basically needs Art3mis to save him like every couple minutes and it's a bit tiring to watch after a while) He figured that IOI would come after him in the real world even though he had gone through the effort to transfer his biodata (fingerprint, medical, personal stuff) to a fake person and keep his profile as Wade Watts different. Even still, he couldn't erase his data from his school's database and that's how IOI found him (by bribing the principal to hand over his school records apparently). But the book does an awesome job of setting up a situation where Wade doesn't know how to react when he's taken to the IOI center to slave away and he seems genuinely scared. Then it shows off the facade of "he's just pretending because they're watching his every move and he's actually slowly making his way through the system to make note of its faults and how he can bring it down from the inside" which is actually pretty interesting and gives justification to him being a bit out of character.

Age Rating: 15+ 

Yeah there's a lot of cursing in this one. Literally my last review was on The Martian which is hilarious mostly because of its "bad" humor and space jokes, but this is just worse. I'm surprised they were able to tone the movie down as much as they did because even if the book isn't incredibly violent or heavy on adult situations, but some of the stuff they talk about.... oof. Though thankfully it's not very persistent. Honestly what more could you expect from a teenage narrator?
This is definitely a book for all ages-- even though it's mostly centered on video games and the way that they affect our relationships with each other and the world, the other side is full of 80's nostalgia that pretty much flew over my head but would be very enjoyable for someone who experienced it and is looking back.
It's a really fun read that will get you hooked quickly even though the exposition is really detailed.

((I went on a spree of reading nonfiction books after this so I'll have at least two more nonfiction reviews! Happy Reading!))

New Year's Eve (Poem #1)

It's nearly 11:00 PM and I'm tired and delirious but I still need to do work so here's a poem from my procrastination that I wrote last summer while talking to a friend and procrastinating studying for something-or-other. I also performed it last weekend at my school's annual poetry jam! Goodnight and I hope you're having a better night than me!

New Year’s Eve

I hosted a party tonight, in June, months from New Year’s Eve

For one, and now two, eyeless wanderers.

I remember I thought twice when I first saw him at the door,

The bespectacled vagabond who dared step foot into my life again.

And now, at dawn, I’m so glad I let him in.

We ate with our fictional ham each other’s worries

And washed down our laughter with wine from fear of being caught.

Who knew he has the most contagious smile? And the most wonderful stories.

I’m surprised so much has changed since we last met.

We counted to midnight, that wanderer and I

The one who I should have let starve in the night.

Except it came and there was no applause.

There was no passing of drinks.

No hugs and kisses were exchanged.

It was two people staring first into a clock, and then each other’s eyes

I found it difficult to say goodbye, once the sun rose.

He assured me that we would meet again, but I was not completely sure.

He had wronged me in the past, but now I saw forgiveness

And I felt a sort of love that I’d never felt before-

Now after the party, I gathered my things and put the plates in the sink

Then I set off, no longer alone in the new year, on the adventure of a lifetime

The Martian

You don't even know how excited I am to be doing this review! The Martian is my favorite movie ever. I literally skipped the homecoming dance freshman year because something compelled me to go see this movie on its opening night. And I don't regret that decision at all. I mean, it's two hours of Matt Damon stuck on Mars and cursing at NASA. What more could you want?
And I procrastinated reading this book for so long. You'd think that I'd be ready to read the ORIGINAL SOURCE MATERIAL for what is arguably my favorite movie of all time the moment I heard about it, but it's been over two years and clearly it's not been enough of a nagging for me to do it. Really, I just recently had this conversation with a friend who also really loves this movie and she told me that she read the book and it's hilarious so I should read it too and I was like "You know, I'm just gonna read it. I don't care if I have school the next day or whatever. I'm just gonna read the book and write a review about it because it's amazing and (more) people deserve to know about it."

The cover:

((Also you know what makes me really happy is that while I was searching for a good resolution cover image for this book, I forgot that the new versions that were published since the movie have Matt Damon's face on them and can someone please buy me that???))

Summary:

On the Ares 3 mission to Mars, a severe sandstorm forces the team to quickly stop their lab operations and leave Mars as soon as possible. While trying to make their way back to the ship, Mark Watney is hit by a piece of debris and the crew leaves Mars, thinking he is dead. The thing is, Mark is very much alive (although impaled by bits of the satellite antenna) and now he's stuck on Mars with limited food and supplies, waiting for someone to come rescue him-- or at least to tell people that he's still alive.

At NASA, which is already dealing with the chaos that comes with a dead astronaut, finding out he is alive is even worse of a blow. Keeping him alive and returning him home will be the challenge that they need to devote all of their energy to. 

My thoughts:

By far my favorite line in this entire book comes from somewhere near the beginning, where Mark realizes that he's going to need to grow his own food at some point because there's going to be a point where he's going to run out of prepackaged food and he can either have a crop as backup or starve to death. He literally just goes "I'm going to have to science the shit out of this" ((I actually went into a fit of laughing at that point))

The main thing about this is that even though it's a life and death matter for Mark, he can't help but make jokes. Like sometimes you forget that he might die if he doesn't turn on the airlock this one time or something and that one mistake can either kill him or set him back so many steps that he might as well die. (The team's medical kit has enough morphine for him to take that it would be lethal, so he does joke a few times about killing himself and calls it his "backup plan".) The team's psychologist says later in the book that it's how he copes with things. It makes him feel better to make other people feel better. 

I think that's why I like him so much... I'm like that too. Like I might be dying on the inside but it'll make my day at least 2% better to know that the joke that I told my friend made their day at least a little bit better. And yup, as his astronaut training got more intense, he just kept more aggressively telling jokes and making people happy.

I've been reading up on what people think his MBTI type should be and honestly, I'd lump him in with me as an INFP. At this point I'm even willing to call him an ENFP. He's just xNFP. I mean this kind of optimism is really common among INFP's ((no I'm not talking about just myself, I'm talking about stuff I've read)) and he's got a lot of the stereotypical personality traits like being so emotionally expressive (he really opens up in the mission logs, but that might just be a man who's well aware that he could die any minute trying to record his life so that the people who might find his recordings have something to go off of), childlike, charming, ultra-sarcastic, and cocky. I'm actually leaning towards calling him ENFP because he seems like he connects with others more (somehow I'm getting more of an extrovert vibe from him but it's probably because everyone agrees that the Hermes feels more depressing without him on board) 

Age Rating: 13+ (Looks like me and Commonsense Media actually agree for once):

I'm just going by my own experience but my mom said that she felt pretty okay bringing me (age 13) to see this movie, and after reading the book, it's not that different (content wise). I'm not going to raise the age because of something like Mark running his mouth every couple of minutes. Like that's funny and it's the kind of humor you get used to by the time you're 13 years old. Literally, the first line of the book is just "I'm pretty f---ed." What an opening. (I DO NOT promote using bad language at any time, but sometimes there is no better way to express how you're feeling and I completely get that)
Also apparently one of the tags for this book on Commonsense Media is "Role Models for Boys" and I was questioning that *just a little*. I mean, yes, Mark Watney is an awesome botanist who's able to work through every problem he gets confronted with and doesn't let the constant threat of death and starvation stop him from trying to get off of Mars, but for some reason I don't see him as "role model" material. He'd probably react with something like "Me? Role model? Pfft, no. Boys (and girls too I guess), go into science, it'll be (absolutely) terrifying and you might just end up almost dead on Mars!"

UPDATE: Their little blurb about the "positive role models" in this book is, "Mark Watney, the protagonist of The Martian, is an easygoing "everyman" who survives a deadly situation by remaining calm, thinking through the problem, and devising solutions that depend on his knowledge of science and engineering." Yeah, alright, I see where you're coming from. I guess me and Commonsense Media do actually agree for once....

((See, I'm not leaving my reviews alone! I'm gonna find the right way to have a balance of everything on this blog. I'll figure it out at some point... But for now, Happy Reading!))

However, She Didn't Break (Short Story #2)

((Wow, umm I didn't realize how much Blogger hates standard MLA formatting. This is my 4th try at posting this story because it NEVER formatted the right way and I'm angry-- also for everyone who's having the same issues, ctrl + shift + v is the way to go!))
For reference: this is the story that I submitted freshman year to the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and won a Gold Key at the Regional Level! Definitely my biggest accomplishment as a writer this far!

However, She Didn't Break

It’d been two months, right? Aisha didn’t know how to keep track of the days anymore. The sun has risen and set countless times since her family had abandoned their apartment in Aleppo to go to some country that might as well send them back. At this point her heart was the only part of her body still hoping but her mind knew the fate of her and those around her. They were all going to die and end up washed up corpses on the shore of some beach.
She squeezed her mother’s frail hand in her own as she slept next to her. For a second she thought about jumping off this blasted boat and doing nature’s deed herself. Though despite what the old stories said, Aisha didn’t believe death could possibly be any better than this.
Suddenly her attention was drawn to one of the other women on the small boat. The lady, not much older than her was wailing in desperation, shaking one of her children awake. Except he wouldn’t wake. Aisha cringed at the thought of what would happen next and tightly shut her eyes, but the noise of grievance and loss plagued her head well into the night.

. . .

“It’s those refugees’ fault we’ve got no customers!” my father roared for maybe the third time this week at the end of yet another slow business day. “If people don’t start coming we’ll have to move back to the mainland!”
I really couldn’t blame him for the sudden outburst, but before I could do anything my mother tried to keep him from saying any more. “Hush now, we’ll be just fine.” Her gaze shifted over to me. “Janine, you should head back.” Her voice however gentle it sounded disguised a hint of commanding authority.
I immediately understood and grabbed my jacket, dashing out of the door in less than a minute. As soon as I stepped outside I was hit in the face by a wall of cold sea air, but I had to run home. Night was when those hungry, dirty people struck and it was coming soon.
Groaning and straining against the wind, I heard more sounds that accompanied mine. Chatter in a foreign tongue that held thoughts of remembrance and hope. Barking of the Coast Guard and more chatter. I was forbidden to spy closer, but before I could do anything to stop myself, I had wandered off the paved track and jumped the fence.
The beach that had seen countless nights of my careless play had suddenly been transformed into a heavily secured checkpoint where masses of refugees tried to pass through a hastily erected gate that was their entry into Greece. Taller, stronger soldiers with guns stood in their way, barking in both Greek and English and those who understood retreated a little. I’d never imagined that my humble home where tourists came to sunbathe and indulge in Mediterranean delicacies would become a struggle between two equally frightened and frantic groups of people.
For a moment I was distracted by the rustling of gravel further down the slope. I feared that someone would find me and drag me to a police station to find my parents. As the rustling got closer, I began to hear labored breathing and hid further behind the boulder, knowing it was my only barrier against whoever was there.
I saw a face, but not with the angles of a soldier’s. It was considerably rounder and more soft, perhaps a woman’s face. She wore the black veil that the women of her country wore, though it wasn’t close to enough to hide streams of thick hair that flew across her face. And her eyes, they were wide in terror as she fought to stand on the slippery rocks.
Shouting from below caused her to divert her attention to the sea of people. The girl called back in her unfamiliar language that I couldn’t understand, voice hitching a little. Within a few minutes she had run down the slope with the speed of unsure footsteps to join her people.
Suddenly feeling heavy from the nerves of the experience, I slowly got to my feet and staggered up the cliff, hoping I wouldn’t fall. Once or twice I turned around to see if the girl was still following me but my eyes failed to focus. Trying to affirm myself that nothing bad happened I climbed over the railing once again and ran the way home faster than I normally would.

. . .

By morning I was sure the chaos would die down. If anything I wanted to properly meet the girl. Half wandering in thoughts, I almost flew out of the house in a desperate hurry to get to the beach with nothing in my hands but a few meager coins to buy bread.
Fresh rolls in hand, I slowly crept down the slope, unsure of what would greet me at the bottom. Though my stomach was growling with the smell of rolls in my hands, I stopped myself from taking a bite. These were for her. Yeah, as if some part of me believed I could win a person over with bread.
Not much to my surprise, there were people sitting on and around the overturned boat. No one spoke, but when they saw me approach, inquisitive heads turned with fear ridden, sleepless eyes inspecting me.
Suddenly my gaze locked on her figure, bent over something small in her hands. Even if I didn’t see her face, I had a really good feeling it was her. I made my way through the crowd with confidence, not holding a single wary gaze, but keeping my eyes only focused on her.
The girl slowly turned to look at me, shoving the small object she was toying with earlier into her dress. Her gaze was harder than that of any girl I’d met before. “Why are you here?” she curtly asked in heavily accented English. “And why do you have all that bread?” As if to affirm herself with partially true assumptions the girl kept rambling on and on. “Of course you’re going to give me bread because I’m a poor girl and you feel bad for me. Your people don’t care about us so why should you?”
I was hurt by every hiss of sarcasm that came out of her mouth but I mentally excused her. I managed a smile and offered the bread to her like a peace laurel. “Keep it.” When she didn’t take it, I pressed on. “It’s for you. Well, all of them are. They’re a little gift.”
She hesitantly took one and inspected it before taking a bite. All of it spoke of home and nights indulging in the pride of enjoying wonderful food. “It’s amazing,” she mumbled. “It’s truly a gift from God,” the girl said louder, looking directly into my eyes for once since we began talking. She took the rest of the rolls from my hand and shouted back to the people behind her. Soon after, many were lining up to get a roll from her, splitting it in halves and quarters with those around them.
As I watched these people eat, I wondered if this was their first taste of good food in a while. What I’d uncovered wasn’t a group of uncivilized humans bent on survival, but people who cared for one another because they knew that each breath and bite of warm food they took may very well be their last.

. . .

Over the next week I kept bringing food, lying to my parents that I was keeping myself busy and studying. I met the girl every day —she told me her name was Aisha— and we talked about pretty much everything, consciously avoiding the topic of the Syrian Revolution and Islamic State.
However through these long conversations I itched to know what it felt like to have to go through what she had. I also wanted to invite her to the restaurant and make her some good Mediterranean food, so I decided to combine them both in a cute forbidden midnight rendezvous.

. . .

I led her into the dimly lit restaurant blindfolded so she wouldn’t be able to see the wonderful meal I had prepared for her. Trying to guide Aisha through the rows of tables and chairs I personally felt like I was blindfolded more than her, though I was able to manage getting her into a chair.
“Janine this is weird,” she complained but I audibly shushed her. “Will I like the surprise?” she asked like a small child.
I tried to reassure her that she’d love it. I brought out the most beautiful set of china we had, filling it with tea and putting a cup beside her plate. I hated myself for thinking this way but it felt like I was making a peasant girl feel like a princess for a night and that eased my conscience a little. Slowly I untied her blindfold and let Aisha take in the wonderful place that was my family’s restaurant. “It’s kind of dark in here, but if I turn on any more lights the blinds wouldn’t be able to contain them,” I confessed.
“So no one knows that you’re here? Or that I’m here?” she asked, the fact that I had done this without my parents’ consent being the only thing that bothered her.
“Not a soul.”
An awkward silence broke between us. I took a seat next to her, watching the girl almost hungrily devour the simple hummus and bread I brought out. I was suddenly reminded of my purpose.“What was this city of yours like?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t hurt her. She’d already been through so much that I didn’t want to pry if she wasn’t comfortable.
“It didn’t look anything like this. It’s a huge city and without a guide who knows what they’re doing you can get pretty lost.” Small beads of tears began to form on the corners of her eyes at the thought of her old home.
I imagined living in a place with so many people for a second. It’d be much too crowded for me, but it was home for her. “How did your home look?” I asked, feeling bad to interrupt her, but we were a little short on time.
“I guess our apartment was a little small, but it was enough,” Aisha started. “I didn’t like having to leave not because of the inconvenience, but because I’ve lived in the same place since I was born. You know, sometimes I’d go on the terrace of the building and just stare at the sunset. One time I actually fell asleep up there and my parents went crazy trying to find me.”
I chuckled with her at the small memory, observing how she smiled and how her chest heaved up and down through her barely tight dress as she laughed. I was a little sad that it brought me to the question I dreaded asking her. “Did you know when you would have to leave?”
Her smile melted instantly and she grabbed my covered arm as if to reassure herself that I would protect her. “I didn’t realize it when people started to disappear,” Aisha choked out. The tears that seemed small drops on her eyelids moments before were a raging torrent of water and mucus, dirtying the eyes I once saw as beautiful to make them muddy and unclear. “It started when some of my friends stopped coming to school and I didn’t know why. I thought they got sick or something and that they’d come back but I didn’t know about the riots and what was going on. Eventually the fighting got so bad that they just closed down the school and we were forced to stay at home,” she managed to say between sobs. “Then one day we got the courage to sneak out with a friend on a secret trail and leave. Leave the place that’s seen all of me and provided a roof over my head for sixteen years.”
Aisha held onto me for some time longer, not saying anything. She was lost in her own world of the suffering she’d seen and felt all around her. I was at a loss for what to do or say in response. I knew it would have been a horrible feeling, living out daily life as if nothing was happening and also being wary that if someone caught you inside they might kill you.
My hand eventually made its way to hers, entwining our fingers in a gesture of reassurance. “You’re safe here. I promise you that you’ll never have to feel anything like that ever again.” Our eyes made contact, hers holding the fear that confused her and mine holding a warm feeling. You’ve made it this far, I thought. You’re unbreakable my friend.
The door to the restaurant flew open and we both ducked, looking for the safety of the table. “Janine!” someone shouted and I knew who it was. I was in so much trouble, oh so much deep trouble.
Aisha turned to me, whispering, “Do you know them?”
“I wish I didn’t right now,” I whispered back.
The slight exchange we had had given away our hiding place. With a harsh tug, my leg was used to wrench my body out from under the table. I was faced with the fury of my father, his face contorted in anger.
“What the hell are you doing here making food at two in the morning?” he screamed, completely furious. At this point it really didn’t bother me too much that my Papa who rarely got angry was venting out his frustration at me. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice Aisha down there under the table. I think I spoke too soon because he’d seen her rear end poking out from underneath the tablecloth and flipped the whole thing over, shattering china and spilling food everywhere. “Who is she?” he roared.
“My f-friend,” I stammered, almost turning white.
“What did I tell you about going down to the beach? Her people are dangerous! They might really hurt you if you get too close. How long has this friendship been going on?”
“A week,” Aisha said softly. “But I assure you my people—”
“Silence girl! I’m talking to my daughter!”
“She’s right. It’s been a week,” I said, regretting all of it but trying to hide the fact that I felt there was nothing wrong with what I was doing. I thought if I pretended to act ashamed he might let Aisha go. Yes, none of this had to do with me. It was all for her.
My father nodded and harshly dismissed her. “Go. Leave us and never come here again,” he commanded. Aisha did just that. Suddenly a sharp pain erupted in my cheek, making my eyes water and sting. He’d struck me hard on my face. “Let’s go home,” he barked and I obeyed.

. . .

I was forbidden to leave the house the next day. My parents left early in the morning and locked the doors. However much I felt like I deserved it, some part of me felt like I had to go see Aisha again and apologize for what happened. I didn’t have my wits about me and made some really hasty decisions.
Barely thinking I opened the kitchen window and popped the screen out, hoping I would be able to fit through such a small opening. I did and finally after about ten minutes of intense thrashing fell out onto the bushes that lined the side of our house.
I ran straight for the beach, not caring that I was wearing no shoes or that it was cold outside.
To my amazement there was a giant ship standing near the beach. In all my years of living on this island, I’d never seen a ship that big. I searched for Aisha as I ran down the slope, unable to find her amongst the sea of people. I whimpered in pain as the soft soles of my feet were scratched by the jagged pieces of rock, though it was tolerable in comparison to the breaking of my heart.
I suddenly caught sight of her veil as she stood in line to get on the unfamiliar vessel and ran as fast as I could, shoving aside people and not bothering to apologize.
“Aisha!” I shouted her name, knowing it was no use. “Aisha please look at me!” My voice was at its breaking point, but I kept shouting.
I lightly pulled on her dress enough that she’d turn around and notice me. When she did, I made sure to make my apology brief. “I’m sorry about what happened last night. I didn’t know that my parents would catch on,” I apologized, waiting for her response.
Aisha spent seconds that felt like eternity just staring at me. “Janine, that was the best night I’ve had in a very long time. You know, I’ll miss you a lot when we reach Germany. I promise I’ll always keep thinking of you.”
My eyes teared up at her last sentence. In a gesture of pure love I threw my arms around the smaller girl and embraced her tightly. I only wanted to break the silence when we separated. “Have an adventure, okay?”
She nodded and the line started moving. I watched her figure get smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely. You know, that girl was impressive. Very impressive. She’d been through so much in such a short amount of time while keeping her head intact. I had to admire that in however much adversity she’d faced, Aisha had come out slightly bent, but not broken. It took a will with the flexibility of elastic and strength of iron to do something like that.

I feel like stories like this are especially needed in this world where people are quick to judge those that look different and act different from them and think that they'll hurt them. We are all humans... how hard is it to understand? 

Happy Reading!